


Like In His Japanese Animes

by Mandibles



Series: Rare Teen Wolf Threesomes [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Gratuitous use of the word fuck because Jackson's not a happy camper, M/M, Other, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex In A Cave, Sex in the Dark, Stupid references to hentai, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While traipsing through a swamp for Deaton, Jackson and Stiles get tangled up in some weird, cephalopodan shit. Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like In His Japanese Animes

Apparently, if you venture deep enough into Beacon Hill’s forests, far enough away from town that the traffic on the interstate is barely even a whisper, the land forms a swampland of sorts with thick, wild vegetation and damp air that still feels warm even in the dead of night. Jackson hates it, hates the fact that he’s going to have to toss his clothes later, but he loves it, too. He loves how the wet ground that gives under his sneakers wafts the warm, rich smell of earth to his nose, how every chitter of wildlife clicks into some primal part of him.

He’s caught in this strange limbo between human and wolf and he isn’t quite sure how he feels about that.

There’s a strangled noise of disgust from behind, reminding Jackson of his traveling companion. He pauses and turns to scowl at the stumbling figure in the dark. “What’s taking you, Stilinski?” The grumble is met with harsh panting, then it’s a mess of limbs crashing into him, nose bumping against his face, and— Jackson lurches back with a yelp, feet stuck in heavy mud, but quickly regains his balance. “Holy shit! What’re you—”

“Sorry, sorry! My bad,” Stilinski wheezes, bracing his hands on Jackson’s shoulders. “Shit, I can’t see  _anything_.”

Night vision: just another perk of being an animal. Jackson shrugs him off, grimaces at the new, gritty feel of mud and dirt and plant rot on his arms and face, and bites, “Well, whose fault is that, asshat?”

“How was I supposed to know the batteries would die?”

“They only died after you chucked the flashlight into  _swamp water_.”

“I tripped!”

“And, whose fault is that?” Jackson repeats, words clipped and sharp. He turns away at the answering silence, but is stopped by a tight, long-fingered grip on his shoulder.

Stilinski frowns deeply and huffs through his nose, disturbing the air before Jackson’s face. He shifts the backpack that hangs on his shoulder. “Look, I could’ve gotten Deaton’s herbs and stuff on my own, you know. You didn’t have to come.”

“Really? Because you would’ve been just fine if I wasn’t here, right?” Jackson snorts, sneers. “Besides, you’re the one who asked me.”

“You could’ve said no.”

A muscle in Jackson’s jaw twitches. “No, I couldn’t.” Stilinski doesn’t know what Derek would have done to him—or, hell, Scott. Jackson loathed having to stand down to either of them, but that didn’t compare to the thought of being shredded by them because of it. “Anyway, I’m your only way back now, so you’ll have to deal.”

Stilinski draws his hand away with unstifled frustration. Maybe he’s starting to get it now. “I’m dealing just fine; you’re the one with the problem.”

Jackson rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it, continuing to slog through the muck with Stilinski following a hairsbreadth behind. For a time there’s only the squelch and slurp of their footsteps in mud, the hum of Beacon Hills who knows how many miles away, and Stilinski’s harsh breathing shrill in Jackson’s ears, making anxiety prickle beneath his skin, triggering the clawing wolf in him. But, it creates a sense of peace in him, the irritation, something to cling onto, and Jackson clings and clings and clings.

Then, it’s Stilinski clinging to him with a fucking  _squeal_.

“What the fuck—”

“Shit—shit! I stepped on something—there was something—fuck! Just—Just—Slimy!”

Jackson growls, actually thrashes free from his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me? Everything here’s slimy; we’re in a swa—” He stops.

Off in the distance, probably where wet land turns to small pockets turns to deep, murky pools, there’s a splash—no, a  _crash_  of water. Like a hand slapping the surface of a lake, but louder, bigger.

Much bigger.

Wha—What the hell?

It takes a second to find his vocal cords and longer to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Hey, Stilinski,” he whispers, reaching blindly behind himself. “Did you hear that?”

Both the question and his hand hang awkwardly in the dense air. The unending noise that rang through his ears has been replaced by an eerie silence, a calm, a slithering sound, and, oh fuck, that’s not good. Jackson makes to jerk away, thinking it’s a snake at his ankles, but—but he doesn’t actually move. He  _can’t_  move, thick, slick weights hooked around his feet.

Terror flares, eyes flash blue, yet the first thought in his mind as he start to panic is “Stilinski! Stiles, can you—”

The coils yank at his ankles and before Jackson realizes, he’s choking on mouthfuls of mud and dank water as he’s dragged across the ground, further into a dark that leave even wolf eyes blind. It’s more than enough to make him wolf out with a throaty howl, spine arching and muscles jerking and fangs gnashing and claws carving grooves in the sludge, but his struggle only makes it worse as more of the vines or whatever the fuck they are spill across his body, curling, twining around his arms and thighs and chest and hands.

Another howl bubbles in the back of his throat, a calling howl, but a vine twists in his hair and jerks his head to the side, striking it against a rushing something—a rock maybe—and Jackson’s world flickers, shuts down.

Then, the world is wet, really, really wet.

Jackson snaps back into consciousness, gulping for air he didn’t know he’d missed, the stink of stagnant water and briny algae and methane making him gag. His eyes blink open and, “Fuck,” he can’t make out anything beyond long, unending stretches of black and, “Oh my god,” absolute nothingness. Heart pounding, chest heaving, a helpless whine tears from his throat as he thrashes in his vertical position and finds that he’s completely bound by those vine-like things and partially submerged in chilly, slimy water. “Oh my fucking god!”

There’s a splash some ways away and his throat quickly closes.

“J-Jackson? Jackson, is that you?”

It takes everything Jackson has not to whimper. “Stiles . . . ?”

“Shit, I’ve never been so happy to hear your voice!”

Jackson seconds that, not that he’d ever say it. “What’s going on, Stilinski? Where the hell are we? What the hell are—” As if they know he’s talking about them, the vines shift and stretch his arms over his head, hook his wrists together; his arms creak in their sockets as they pull him a little more out of the water. “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck.”

“I have no idea, but I think—” Stilinski gives a shaky, borderline-hysterical laugh. “Oh man, I think these are fucking tentacles.”

“ . . . Tenta—”

“Yeah, tentacles. And, I hate to break it to you, but I think I’ve seen enough hentai to know where this is—”

“Oh my god, don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

A pause.

“Do you know what—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jackson hisses with great pain, “And, we are not fucking talking about this right now.” Still, now that he’s mentioned it, the appendages wrapped around him don’t have the firmness, the solidness of vines, really; they’re solid in their own way, like after gelatin’s set in the fridge, and they’re incredibly moist and flexible and strong. Like, well fuck, tentacles, with suckers and the whole works.

Seriously. What the fuck?

He must have voiced the thought, because Stilinski laughs somewhere in the darkness. “This is all kinds of fucked,” he agrees with more mirth than Jackson cares to hear. “But, it’s okay.”

Jackson sputters and jerks against his restraints. “Okay?! How is getting eaten by some, ugh, I dunno—”

“Tentacle monster?”

“Wha—no! No, don’t even—Just shut up! Shut up and let me think.”

A snort rings through the air. “Oh yeah, because we totally have time for that, right?”

“What the  _hell_  does that mean?”

“I’m just sayin’ that if  _you’re_  in charge, we’re as good as ass raped which, yeah, could actually be a thing, you know. We might as well just accept it now.”

Jackson huffs through his nostrils, the shift bristling under his skin. “Look,  _I’m_  the fucking werewolf here, remember?” he snarls. “You need me more than I need you. So, for the last time, you’re going to  _shut your fucking mouth_  while I think of a way out. Get it?”

“Whatever,” Stilinski grumbles after a moment and though it’s not exactly what Jackson wants to hear, the almost tangible reluctance of it is enough for him.

Needless to say, tapping into the rage he needs to wolf out comes easily. He slips into the shift with a snarl and the snap of teeth and he  _pulls_ , claws digging into slimy muscle and spine arching in a painful bend as he tries to wrench his hands free. He yanks and jerks, but his binds are unyielding, yet he doesn’t relent until the crack of a tentacle across his back forces him to snap back into place, hiss in pain.

“Son of a bitch!”

“So, how’s that escape plan working for you, MacGyver?”

“I’m going to fucking  _kill_  you, Stilinski. Seriously.”

“Yeah, if squiddy here doesn’t kill us fir— _omigod_!” There’s a frantic splash and Jackson turns his head toward the noise.

“Stilinski?”

“No, it—fuck—there’s a—omigod— _urgh_! Ew, it’s—”

Jackson strains to hear the rest of the sentence, but it ends there. “What’s happen—” He squawks as a tentacle or eight slaps across his stomach, chest, slimy and cool.

Silence.

“ _Shit_!”

Instinct tells him to  _fight_  and, eyes glowing blue, Jackson does. He wrestles against his restraints with newfound ferocity, pulling and kicking and biting until, “Fuck,” his arms creak and, “Stilinski,” his legs spasm and, “ _Stiles_ ,” his lips are bloody. But, it does nothing to slow the creep of cephalopod arms to his neck, suckers catching and tearing on his soaked shirt until Jackson feels it falling from his shoulders in tatters and the tight grip of weight around his throat.

“Fuck! Fuck—Get off! Get the fuck—”

Suckers swipe across his parted lips, his teeth, leaving a thick film of something that’s already tingling on his tongue. Despite his internal shriek of, “No!” his throat works, automatically swallowing it down.

His body goes slack. He cries out, but only a gurgle leaves him.  

It tastes like everything else, like grass and leaves and pine needles and other green things that decay in this pool of muck. Though most of the viscous substance is already working its way down, leaving tingling then numbness in its wake, he swallows again, once, twice, as if that will bring more to his mouth. Because whatever it is makes his skin prickle with heat even though he’s dipped in frigid water and it kind of makes his mind heat, too, leaves it fuzzy with white noise and static.

This must be what it does: catches people, drugs them so they don’t resist, and then  _eats_  them.

Jackson’s head rolls, blue eyes blown wide in the dark, and he feels the tug of the shift retracting as his heart rate slows. After a few tries, he manages a strangled moan that’s supposed to be Stilinski’s name. A moment, then there’s an answering call and the panic, the helplessness, make way for the relief that blankets him. But, it’s fleeting as those damned fleshy things curl around his neck, his face, his hair, and more come, wriggling their way under his pants leg with liquid heat.

His jeans, drenched and heavy, meet a similar fate to his shirt in a flurry of water and bubbles, though only on one side. He knows, because he feels his body shift as the weight of wet fabric pull his recently-unbound right leg down. A soft limb twines around the trunk of his left thigh, drags it up to spread him open, and the suckered, triangular palm rubs the limp bulge in his skin-plastered boxer briefs; he gasps a breath into the damp air.

Okay, so, tentacle rape may actually be a thing. Jackson catches a sharp grunt in the distance which may very well be Stilinski’s, “I told you so.”

That’s only the beginning of the shittiness, though, because somehow there are things worse than being restrained in utter darkness and being stripped and groped by a cephalopod like in some hentai with Stiles-fucking-Stilinski only a few feet away. No, no, the worst fucking part of all of this, of this whole night, is the fact that he gets  _hard_. It could be, you know, just a fear boner or something, but that doesn’t change that he’s responding to what that tentacle does in slimy streaks.

Shreds of his underwear peel off and his dick falls free. His lips, tongue, and throat cooperate long enough for a, “Fuck!” as the tentacle curls up his length and  _squeezes_ , the palm resting on the head. He’s half-hard in a breath, even harder with every pant after, and his whole body fucking spasms in a rush of precum when the tentacle presses against his slit, the very tip dipping in so slightly. “ _Ow_ ,” comes his hiss, but his cock stays upright, precum oozing and rolling down the sides to join the mess of swamp water and tentacle mucus. Sparks tickling up his length, making his thighs tremble, his toes curl, he whimpers, even cries a little because he does not want this.

But, his body wants it; his body wants to  _come_. He’s so lost in the anxious wanting and not wanting, the tentacle palming his sac and the teeth digging into his lip that he doesn’t realize just how close he is until the tendrils around his neck tighten, his balls draw up and his cock jerks, spunk surging up and out in streaks into the empty air. Jackson snarls through his sudden, hip-jerking release and whines when the tentacles don’t stop stroking when it ends, making his stomach contract tightly from the oversensitivity.

“F-Fuck—Fuck— _Fuck_!” His voice is high-pitched, frantic.

A hoarse call—“Jackson?”—breaks from the blackness and shame chokes Jackson. Stilinski clears his throat; speech must be difficult for him, too. “H-Hey, are you—You okay?”

Jackson only pants at first, body still twitching in agony under the tentacles’ unrelenting touch, before he grits, “No. No, not fuck-ing o-kay. It won’t—” It won’t  _stop_ , he thinks with a sob.

“Shit,” Stilinski breathes with similar shame, “You, too?”

Jackson groans. So, Stilinski— He imagines Stiles twisting in the dark, forced to orgasm, wincing, face twisted, as the tendrils continue to squeeze him dry and this should not be getting Jackson hard again, no, it’s too fucking soon, what—

“Jackson, you feel it?”

There’s a pitch in Stiles’ voice that makes Jackson uncomfortable—uncomfortable in the fact that he likes it. What he hates more, though, is the way he mumbles, “Yeah,” in return.

Silence, then, “I wanna fuck you.”

“ _What_?”

Stiles’ heartbeat is loud, thunderous in Jackson’s ears. “I want—I want to be inside you. Fucking shoot inside and fill you up. I want—I want—” A splash, like someone kicking in the water. “Fuck, I’m sorry! I don’t know—know where—”

“I know,” Jackson finds himself whispering, unsure if his companion can even hear him. He arches into the pain/pleasure of the tentacle’s strokes, blurred, distorted images of Stiles fucking him, mounting him like an animal with snorting breaths and bites and roars flickering behind his eyelids. Images that he’s never thought about before; images that aren’t  _his_. “It’s doing this to us, that stuff it fed us. It’s . . .”

“Making me want to fuck you,” Stiles finishes when Jackson falters.

“Making me want you to fuck me,” Jackson adds.

Stiles’ groan echoes around them. “This is so fucked! This so, so fucked, so fucking—fucking— _holy shit_!”

There’s a sudden surge of slimy water splashing and lapping across Jackson’s stomach until a fiery form collides with his, a head knocking into his chest, eliciting surprised grunts from both sides. Stiles’ fingers burning into Jackson’s skin, Jackson’s hitched leg curling around Stiles’ back, they exchange heated breaths, heartbeats.

“Fuck,” and, “Shit,” they gasp in unison.

As if realizing the extreme height difference they are causing, the tentacles dip Jackson lower yet remain steadfast. Stiles is quick to work over Jackson’s newly-accessible chin, leaving open-mouthed kisses along his jawline. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs with lips and teeth, voice mortified, but the tentacle-wrapped dick digging into Jackson’s hip less so. “I’m so fucking sorry, but I—I have to—”

Jackson nods, cheek rubbing over Stiles’ buzzed head. “Me too, me too.”

Practically feral, Stiles dives into a kiss, all awkward and eager clatters of teeth and unsure tongue, and Jackson lets him take control of his mouth. Stiles grabs his clothed thigh too, shifts their position, and Jackson realizes just how much freedom the other has, his arms seemingly unrestrained and his shirt still intact for the most part. But, then, their hips start rocking, their newfound erections sliding against each other, and his anger is lost in the haze of the green things he still tastes on the back of his tongue.

Their thrusts, though, are hindered by the tentacles that twist and twine and tangle between them, leaving them to hump fitfully into the mass of writhing tendrils. It’s good, so  _good_ , but Jackson still mewls in relief at the sticky slick brush along his crack, over his pucker. Denials ricochet through his brain, yet he moans a pathetic litany of  _yes_  into Stiles’ ear, body eager for the burning press it knows will happen.

Finally, there’s that press, that burn, and Jackson chokes, caught in the mix of choices, his body ready to open up and welcome while his sanity presses him to clamp down, close up shop. Then, Stiles bites him, right where shoulder meets neck with a ferocity he doesn’t expect, and sanity loses the battle horribly.

The tentacle, triangular-headed yet body more cylindrical than the rest, though slick, wriggles in with a shocking amount of pain, but it’s nothing compared to what Jackson’s endured since he’s been bitten, since his first real full moon. He just squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on the good things, like Peter had taught him as his pseudo-Alpha. There’s the anxious pulsing in his dick, a place where all is good and nothing hurts; then, there’s the invading tentacle, where it hurts but feels good too beneath the surface; then, there’s the ring of tentacles around his throat that squeeze enough for Jackson to feel the pleasure sharpen; and, then there’s Stiles, who bites and grunts but kisses and whimpers, too.

The tip brushes his prostate, then  _pounds_  into it, and he’s gone, just  _gone_.

Jackson pushes into Stiles’ tight grip and loses himself in a bout of pleasured strokes and sharp splashing and soft squelching and tight pants and so, so, so much darkness. The rush of blood deafening in his ears, he almost misses the rattling sobs of “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” and, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and, “Jackson, yes, please,  _Jackson_ ,” into the air.

 The cries quickly disappear down Jackson’s throat as they share a final, sloppy kiss, surer on Stiles’ end than the last one, before the tentacles crush his windpipe until white sparks behind his eyes and it shocks him into another, weaker orgasm, spending across the backs of fleshy appendages, the head of Stiles’ dick. Stiles follows closely after with a throaty groan, shuddering and scraping his teeth across Jackson’s lips.

They pant together, Jackson’s eyes and limbs heavy and useless with exhaustion, and the same must go for Stiles who’s hands slip on his bound thighs. Still, the tentacles work with careless abandon, thrusting and stroking and squeezing and snaking, and there are honest to god  _tears_  streaming down Jackson’s cheeks, his chin, because it’s all too fucking much for his body to stand.

“ _God-fucking-dammit_!” he roars, voice cracking. He tries to pull away from everything, from the appendage that twists in and out, from the tangle strangling his sac, his limp cock, but it’s an effort made in vain and he sobs against Stiles’ shoulder, embarrassment lost. “Why won’t it fucking stop?”

Stiles shakes his head and croaks, voice roughened by his own tears, “Don’t— _shit_ —Don’t know. Fuck, what if this is how it, you know, feeds?”

Jackson’s mind swims, caught by the stars that burst behind his eyelids with each pound from that thrusting tentacle. He squirms under the throttling oversensitivity, pleasure so sharp it hurts more than anything. “Don’t fucking say that!”

“But, I think I know why it—”

“I don’t care!” Jackson snaps. “I don’t care about  _why_ ; I just want to know how to get out of this! So, if whatever you’re saying is not a plan, shut the fuck up.”

A pause, then, Stiles’ tongue meets his in a sluggish tangle Jackson’s own returns. “They—They have to be looking for us, right? We just need to hold out until then.”

“That is a  _shitty_  plan,” Jackson wheezes, leaning in for another kiss.

Because, Jackson knows he physically can’t last any longer. Somewhere, somehow along the line, his cock manages to get hard for a third, painful time and when his body succumbs to the tentacle’s merciless prostate milking, his orgasm is dry but  _vicious_. Jackson jerks and spasms and gasps through it, tentacles and Stiles the only things keeping him upright. And, that’s  _it_ , his body can’t endure the stress, the pleasure, the pain, or the  _sliminess_  of it any longer and shuts down entirely.

The last things he recognizes before the world fades out of existence are Stiles’ hand clutching his hair, his tongue down his throat. Then, there’s nothing.

Nothing until there’s warmth, bleeding into his skin. Jackson clings to it, whatever is exuding this fire, wraps his limbs tightly around it until he’s sure it can’t leave.  It grumbles, but somehow that only makes Jackson whine and nose into this endlessly comforting force, taking in the scent of home and pack and—fuck— _Alpha_.

Jackson blinks, then instantly regrets it, wincing at the glare of sunlight after so long in the dark. “ _Shit_.” He realizes belatedly that they are moving, Derek piggybacking him. He ventures to try sight again and is greeted by his Alpha’s dipped eyebrows, his frown.

He’s never been so fucking  _happy_  to see the Derek’s bitchface.

They just stare at each other, Jackson on the verge of tears, before Derek gripes, “If you’re awake, you can walk on your own.”

Jackson pointedly ignores him, the past few hours rushing up to him. “Stiles? Where’s Stilinski? Is he—”

“Here,” comes a croak. Stilinski, hair, face, and torn shirt caked in drying mud and gook, trudges beside them with help from Isaac. “Hey.”

Reminded of his nakedness, of how Stiles had felt against him not too long ago, Jackson curls his arms around Derek’s neck, much like a child hiding behind his dad. “Hey.”

The following silence is awkward, Stilinski’s eyes firm on Jackson, Jackson unable to meet them, and the other two listening intently. Then, Stilinski flashes an awkward half-smile. “So, we survived! Yay?”

“Yeah, I guess. Yay.”

“So, uh, I guess we learned not to question my otaku-ness, right?”

Jackson snorts against Derek’s nape. “Are you being serious right now?” he mutters with no real malice, his face breaking into a grin.

Obviously relieved, Stilinski beams in return, shrugs. “Yeah, well—yeah. And if it makes you feel better, you make one pretty-ass Japanese schoolgirl.”

It shouldn’t be funny, it really  _shouldn’t_ , but Jackson can’t seem to help the way he laughs and laughs and laughs.


End file.
